


The Undercover Mission

by draculard



Category: Star Wars Legends: Thrawn Trilogy - Timothy Zahn
Genre: Anal Sex, Bathroom Sex, Bottom Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo, Dom Gilad Pellaeon, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Exhibitionism, Feminization, Humiliation, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Master/Slave, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Public Masturbation, Sexual Slavery, Sub Thrawn, Tentacle Sex, Top Gilad Pellaeon, Undercover Missions, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:41:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26456599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: It's top secret, of course. There's no reason for either Pellaeon or Thrawn to ever mention what happens here to anybody else.
Relationships: Gilad Pellaeon/Thrawn | Mitth’raw’nuruodo
Comments: 7
Kudos: 39





	The Undercover Mission

“We’ll play it by instinct,” Thrawn said. 

“I don’t like playing it by _instinct_ , sir,” Pellaeon said, trying not to grouse about it. He already hated that Thrawn didn’t bother to draw up a battle plan before conflicts — and in those cases, at least they were both relatively safe on the bridge of an Imperial Star Destroyer. This was different; this was old-fashioned feet-on-the-ground planet-side work, and Pellaeon was eager to get to it, yes — but he wasn’t quite so eager to die in the process just because Thrawn couldn’t be assed to come up with a plan.

“No battle plan survives contact with the enemy, Captain,” Thrawn reminded him. 

Pellaeon scoffed. “So we just go in there with no plan at all, sir? That’s your solution?” 

For an agonizingly long moment, Thrawn didn’t respond. He was reclined in his command chair, gazing through hooded eyes at an art holo from the planet they’d be shuttling down toward within the hour — a backwoods place more lawless than the entire Corellian System, called R’saylnaw. 

Pellaeon bit his lip as he gazed at the art holo. It was a sculpture made up of sharp, jagged spikes and aggressive-looking shades of colors Pellaeon had most recently seen on the body armor of Black Sun members. He wasn’t an art expert — certainly, he wasn’t anywhere near Thrawn’s level; he couldn’t even confidently say he was on the same level as a sixteen-year-old taking his first-ever elective art history course — but he didn’t like what he saw.

Thrawn’s head tilted a little bit, his eyes sliding over to meet Pellaeon’s while the rest of his body remained angled toward the holo. “We _have_ a plan, Captain,” he said mildly. “Our plan is to go undercover and infiltrate the local crime organization known as Fi’ila Na. Our objective is to determine which shipping routes they use to deliver weapons and miscellaneous supplies to warlords farther out in the system.”

The unspoken end to that statement seemed to be, _Which part confuses you?_ But Thrawn, for all his faults — and Pellaeon could write a book about _those_ — was too gracious a leader to be snarky about anything. And besides, Pellaeon _wasn’t_ confused. He just had some concerns.

“Undercover how, sir?” he said with strained patience. “Infiltrate how? _Determine_ how?”

“The first two we must determine once we have a better grasp on local culture,” Thrawn said, returning his gaze to the holo before him. “The people of R’saylnaw value the exotic, yet view it simultaneously as less respectable than their own culture. As such, I think it would be wise to have a human component — someone they can respect and trust, to an extent, with vital information — as well as an alien component, someone whose presence will be tolerated for the sake of novelty but who will not be watched as closely as the human due to a simple lack of respect, allowing that agent to transmit or simply steal information if need be.”

Pellaeon listened to all this, condensing it into the bare facts as Thrawn spoke. In the end, he realized Thrawn hadn’t given him anything new. “You’re just reiterating that we’re both going undercover, sir,” he said. “You’re avoiding the question of _how_.”

“Are you familiar with Fi’ila Na?” Thrawn asked him.

Pellaeon bit back the urge to scoff again. “Respectfully, sir, _no_ _one_ is familiar with Fi’ila Na,” he said. “Outside of their system, nobody’s even heard of them. There are no records of any past interactions we may have had with them, no news briefs on the HoloNet…”

“Precisely,” said Thrawn. “So we must first observe them, and then devise a more detailed plan.”

Pellaeon felt his heart sinking. “And you want to observe them _planet-side,_ sir?” he checked.

“Of course,” said Thrawn as if it were really that simple. “How else will we gain the information we need?”

“Well, _how_ are we going to observe them?” asked Pellaeon, now irate. He gestured at his Imperial uniform, then at Thrawn’s. “We’d have to be undercover to do so, sir, so we might as well devise a battle plan now. We’re talking in circles here.”

With an inaudible sigh — Pellaeon only knew there _was_ a sigh because he spotted the rise and fall of Thrawn’s chest — Thrawn leaned forward and switched the holopod off. He shifted in his chair to face Pellaeon, crossing his legs and resting one hand on his chin, making him look either very thoughtful or very bored. 

“Very well,” he said. “ _You_ will be a wanted Corellian smuggler evading CorSec in the Outer Rim. _I_ will be your alien slave.” He raised an eyebrow, a slight smirk touching his lips. “Does that satisfy you?”

For a moment, Pellaeon’s brain stopped working. He was halfway to voicing a sarcastic response to the ‘Corellian smuggler’ comment when he heard the words ‘alien slave’ come out of Thrawn’s mouth, and now he was simply broken. He couldn’t speak for the life of him. 

He scowled at Thrawn for what felt like ages, his face gradually turning red with consternation.

“You’re joking, yes?” he said.

It did not appear that Thrawn was joking. He raised an eyebrow at Pellaeon.

“You disapprove?” he asked. “Alien slaves and human slaveowners are plentiful here. I do not believe we will stand out in such a guise — unless, of course, you are unwilling.”

“I’m not _unwilling_ , sir,” said Pellaeon quickly — he’d come too far in the Navy to be foisted out on ‘failure to obey’ charges now. “I’m merely hesitant. What precisely would this role entail?”

“Whatever necessary,” Thrawn said with a quirk of his lips. “Again, it will depend on the situation. Above all else, we must be convincing.”

“But—”

“You’ll handle it well, Captain. I trust you,” said Thrawn simply. He’d already turned away from Pellaeon, pulling up a map of the cities they’d be trudging through. He was apparently already immersed in studying it when he said those words, _I trust you,_ absently and casually, as if it was nothing.

In all his Imperial career, Pellaeon wasn’t sure any of his commanding officers had ever explicitly said they trusted him before. He felt a warm glow start in his chest and tried to suppress it, but failed. Sure, this was blatant manipulation on Thrawn’s part, but it was still nice to hear.

“Alright, sir,” he said gruffly. “Have it your way.”

“ _Your_ way,” Thrawn corrected him with a faint smile as he scrolled through the displays on his datapad. “You’re the master here, remember?”

Ugh. This mission was going to be insufferable. 

* * *

A quick, solitary walk around the city where they’d docked informed Pellaeon that at least the alien slaves here didn’t dress … well, the way he’d feared. There weren’t any tawdry bikinis or crotch-less trousers going on. He used local currency to buy a package of treel kabobs, wrapped it in wax-coated flimsi, and headed back to the shuttle as casually as he could. 

“Simple clothes,” he informed Thrawn once the door was closed behind him. “Not much different from the slave owners', except more plain.”

Thrawn, lounging in the pilot seat with his feet up and his datapad on, turned to face Pellaeon. He raised one eyebrow. 

“Shirts, trousers,” Pellaeon clarified. “More Outer Rim fashion than Core World. Not many garlanded tunics or embroidered robes about.”

He could tell this wasn’t a good enough explanation for Thrawn, but unless the admiral started asking more specific questions, all Pellaeon could do was shrug. After a moment, Thrawn leaned forward, lightening the tint on the transparisteel viewport until he could see the crowd walking past outside. He surveyed them for a moment — not long enough for Pellaeon to focus on any particular individual — and then darkened the tint again.

“I see,” he said, leaning back in his seat.

“If you could figure out what to wear just from looking outside for a second,” said Pellaeon, trying not to sound as irked as he felt, “then why was it necessary for me to take a walk through the marketplace?”

Thrawn tented his fingers and declined to answer this question. “Luckily, I have arranged for such circumstances,” he said. He stood abruptly, forcing Pellaeon to take a few steps back, and went to the storage compartment built into the wall beneath the bunks in the transport. From there, Thrawn removed a series of articles — plain clothing, nothing too fancy or too decrepit — and started putting them on.

Pellaeon turned away, flushing at the quick glimpse of bare blue skin he got when Thrawn unbuttoned his tunic. 

“You have no modesty,” he grumbled, covering his eyes.

“We’re a different species, Captain,” Thrawn shot back. “Do you feel self-conscious changing in front of womp-rats?”

“I’ve never changed in front of a womp-rat, so I wouldn’t know,” said Pellaeon. “Why would you even use that as an example? Have _you_ changed in front of a womp-rat?”

Thrawn didn’t answer, which Pellaeon felt was more or less equivalent to a ‘yes.’ But who was he to judge? Thrawn was a Grand Admiral; he’d probably been on all kinds of strange missions in the past.

“Besides,” Pellaeon said, still looking away, “womp-rats and humans have a very different anatomy. Of course there’s no shyness; there’s nothing to compare. But humans and … whatever _you_ are…”

Thrawn didn’t respond to that. After a moment, Pellaeon sneaked a glance over his shoulder and caught Thrawn in his underwear. His tightly-clad, usually-meant-for-women underwear. The Grand Admiral looked at him, red eyes impossible to read, until Pellaeon felt compelled to turn around again. 

“No modesty,” he said again. He thought he heard a scoff from Thrawn at that, but he couldn’t be sure. _Like the guy wearing a thong deserves to scoff,_ he thought.

“You’ll have to adjust your attitude sooner rather than later,” Thrawn told him. He stepped back into view, now fully dressed in the clothes of a lower-class civilian. It was strange to see Thrawn in simple trousers and a shirt, without the more dramatic lines of a military uniform filling him out; he looked smaller but more athletic at the same time. And of course, there was the matter of the thong. “No slave owner sees his slave as anything more than a product,” said Thrawn. “There will be no need for modesty between us undercover.”

A sour taste flooded Pellaeon’s mouth as he processed that. “But that’s a moot point, sir. That is, it goes without saying. You won’t be getting undressed when we’re undercover,” he protested.

Thrawn only gazed at him.

“ _Right_ , sir?” Pellaeon said, putting a little bit of menace into his voice.

A smile cracked Thrawn’s stony expression. “Please,” he said, inclining his head. “We must use our new identities from now on. If you call me ‘sir,’ you’ll give the entire operation away.”

Pellaeon scowled, but he couldn’t deny Thrawn was right. “What should I call you, then?” he asked. “We haven’t discussed codenames.”

“Slaves don’t have names,” said Thrawn. His voice was low, his tone matter-of-fact — but there was something strangely satisfied about his eyes as he said it that made Pellaeon’s heartbeat spike. He couldn’t explain why. 

“So … I’ll call you…?”

“You can call me anything,” said Thrawn. He folded himself gracefully onto the bunk built into the shuttle wall and crossed his legs. “Alien. Slave. Pet—”

Pellaeon’s heartbeat spiked even higher.

“—or even greater insults if you wish, so long as it isn’t a name,” Thrawn finished. He leaned back on the mattress, looking regally confident despite his ragged clothes. Pellaeon eyed him critically, his mouth dry.

“You really think you can pull off the slave character, sir?” he asked, unable to keep the skepticism out of his voice. Thrawn met his gaze calmly.

“Yes,” he said. “Assuming your clientele already has a taste for aliens, there should be no problem. I am not entirely unpleasant-looking for a Chiss.”

Pellaeon blinked; before he could process the misunderstanding, Thrawn went on.

“Although I am certainly no better than average in looks, I’ve found that, counter-intuitively, many sex slaves are in fact average or lower. I don’t believe we will set off any alarm bells based on my appearance.”

“Ah…” said Pellaeon, his voice weak. “Ah, sex slaves?”

And, wait — Thrawn only thought he was _average_?

“Yes, sex slaves,” said Thrawn evenly. “Is that not the term?”

“It…” Pellaeon hesitated. “It’s the term, sir.”

“Slave,” Thrawn corrected, lips twitching.

“Slave,” Pellaeon amended with a scowl. He eyed Thrawn again, his gaze darting down to the V between his legs. “And the, er — the underwear. Is that part of the role?”

Thrawn raised an eyebrow and gave a shrug that seemed to indicate Pellaeon should already know. He lifted one leg and crossed it over the other in what seemed to Pellaeon like an unnecessarily conspicuous gesture. 

“You’re telling me you wear that on the bridge?” he asked, his face a wooden mask.

Thrawn just smiled and twitched his shoulders in another shrug.

“Alright,” said Pellaeon, brushing a hand over his face with a sigh. “Alright, that’s fine. I’ll move past it. Let’s just…” He twirled a finger wearily through the air. “Let’s just do this, please. I’m already exhausted.”

* * *

It didn’t take long to infiltrate Fi’ila Na. By the end of the day, Pellaeon had scored an invitation to the gang’s local headquarters, a cantina that anyone with half a brain could tell was a front. Or rather, his persona Vas Deferens had scored the invitation.

Thrawn, of course, had chosen the name.

They stood side by side in the cantina’s back room now, facing a small group of human gangsters, all of them dressed in painted armor that bordered on the ridiculous. None of them looked particularly threatening, Pellaeon noticed with chagrin. Beside him, Thrawn stood with his head down and his shoulders slumped, feigning humility — or fear, or something. Whatever it was, it didn’t come naturally to him. Pellaeon could see him eyeing the gangsters from beneath his lashes. 

“Would you like to inspect the goods?” Pellaeon asked politely. The humans glanced sideways at each other, each of them waiting for someone else to take the lead. Well, Pellaeon was perfectly capable of doing that. He put his hand on the small of Thrawn’s back and nudged him forward. “Show the good men what they’re paying for,” he said.

Thrawn hesitated — good acting, Pellaeon thought — and then took two small, almost frightened steps toward the gangsters. He looked back at Pellaeon, uncertainty flashing over his face, but Pellaeon gave nothing away. He stared back at Thrawn, his own face stony, and said nothing.

Looking back at the gangsters, Thrawn took a deep breath and, with subtly trembling fingers, undid the buttons on his shirt.

“He seems nervous,” one of the gangsters commented.

Pellaeon gave him an arch look and didn’t respond. With a huff, the gangster gestured toward Thrawn with his blaster.

“Well, he won’t exactly make for good product if he’s nervous, will he?” he asked.

Stepping forward, Pellaeon laid his palm flat against Thrawn’s back, between his shoulder blades. “Feel free to break him in first, then,” he said with a smoothness he didn’t actually feel. “Isn’t that part of the fun?”

The gangsters didn’t respond; some of them looked disinterested, but for most of them — Pellaeon caught the sudden sharpness in their eyes, and there was no mistaking that. He tapped Thrawn on the back again; when Thrawn didn’t respond at once, he snapped, “Undress, slave.”

Thrawn finished with his shirt buttons instantly, shrugging out of the sleeves and letting the shirt fall to the floor. He started on his belt next, fumbling once with the buckle before he got it undone. He slipped the strip of leather out of his trouser loops and undid the sealing strip next, letting his trousers fall to the floor as well.

Pellaeon stood to the side, feigning disinterest — pretending that his commanding officer wasn’t stumbling through a faux-nervous strip show right next to him. He could hear the occasional shallow, hitching breath from Thrawn, simulating fear almost perfectly — but when he glanced sideways, he saw the faint flush on Thrawn’s cheeks and wondered if it wasn’t something else entirely.

Scanning down, Pellaeon saw the sizable tent in Thrawn’s underwear and decided it was something else indeed. He looked away quickly, fighting back a fierce blush and a sense of mortification that he could only pray didn’t show up on his face.

“Well, if that’s what happens when he’s nervous…” one of the gangsters said. 

With his blush under control — more or less — Pellaeon took a deep breath and rapped Thrawn on the shoulder.

“Show them,” he ordered.

Thrawn glanced at him, a quick sideways glance that told Pellaeon more than it was perhaps supposed to. There was a flicker of genuine embarrassment across Thrawn’s face before he obeyed. He hooked his fingers under the waistband of his underwear and pushed them down, unveiling a remarkably hard — and remarkably human-looking — cock. It bobbed against Thrawn’s stomach, long and sleek and exquisitely made.

No modesty between a slave and a slaveowner, Thrawn had told him. But that meant no surprises, either, so Pellaeon forced himself to look away and feign disinterest. He studied the gangsters, taking in their approving expressions and the lust already worming its way into some of their eyes.

And then, as one, that lust and approval gave way to something akin to horror.

“What the fuck is _that_?” one of them said.

Pellaeon turned to Thrawn, keeping a neutral expression on his face, and found Thrawn covering his genitals with both hands. Pellaeon tried to catch Thrawn’s eyes, but the other man wouldn’t look his way. There were lines of discomfort around his lips. 

“Show them, slave,” Pellaeon said.

Thrawn’s eyes shifted his way, and for a moment the discomfort there was so great that Pellaeon thought Thrawn would disobey him. He was working through contingency plans, trying to figure out how he’d cover the disobedience, when Thrawn let out a short, sharp sigh and moved his hands behind his back.

Beneath his cock, slim and slick-looking, was a deep blue tentacle.

“Oh, _shit_ ,” said one of the gangsters, looking half-horrified and half-elated. “We’re gonna be raking in the dough with this, man.”

The tentacle seemed to lengthen while Thrawn stared studiously at the corner, ignoring the reactions of the men before him. Hell, Pellaeon thought, he couldn’t have at least briefed Pellaeon on the presence of a tentacle before they went into this? The Grand Admiral was showing an awful lot of faith in his improv skills at the moment.

“Rare, isn’t it?” Pellaeon said, trying to disguise the fact that this was not entirely a rhetorical question. He could tell from the expressions on the gangsters’ faces that he was right. “Makes him tough to part with,” Pellaeon said. He clapped a hand down on Thrawn’s shoulder in what looked like a possessive gesture but was really meant to comfort him through the exposure. He felt Thrawn lean into the touch slightly.

For all his bravado before the mission started, Pellaeon thought, it was clear this whole ordeal wasn’t quite within Thrawn’s comfort zone. 

“What’s it doing?” one of the gangsters asked.

Thrawn angled his chin up and stared at the ceiling, pointedly refusing to engage. When Pellaeon glanced down, he saw the tentacle lengthening, apparently of its own volition. Some sort of natural lubricant coated the skin, lending a phosphorescent glow to the organ that was almost impossible not to stare at. The tentacle seemed to come from a pouch just beneath Thrawn’s cock.

“What does it do?” asked one of the gangsters, sounding both bemused and eager to learn.

Pellaeon hesitated, taking a quick moment to study Thrawn’s face. He couldn’t even begin to guess, and he knew that something as glib as “What do you think it does?” probably wouldn’t get him by in this situation. He pushed Thrawn forward a little — just one step — and said,

“What are you waiting for, slave? Show them. And _while_ he shows you—” He raised his eyebrows pointedly at the gangsters. “—let’s discuss business, yes?”

He stepped away from Thrawn as he said it, putting some distance between them — and forcing the gangsters to divide their attention. Most of them continued to stare at Thrawn anyway, while a few focused instead on Pellaeon, their eyes darting occasionally to the spectacle at his right. 

For his part, Pellaeon very pointedly did not glance over. Not once. He ignored the sounds he heard — sharp, shallow gasps; the wet friction of skin on skin — and stuck entirely to business.

“I’ve got plenty more where this one came from,” he said, jabbing a thumb Thrawn’s way. “You can consider this one the floor model — he’s there to look at, not to touch. But if you’re interested…”

One of the gangsters nodded. The others were too distracted by the sight before them to respond.

“Then I’m gonna need to know which shipping route to send the rest on,” Pellaeon said. 

He heard a sharp hiss of breath beside him and then a low, muffled groan. 

The gangsters waffled for a moment, now paying a bit more attention — reluctantly — to Pellaeon. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a datacard (with a special sniffer program downloaded on it just for today); he held it out tantalizingly to the nearest gangster.

“My credentials,” he said archly. “Since you seem like the suspicious sort.”

They looked over the data and false scandocs quickly, with only one gangster paying any sort of attention to it. The others remained distracted; some were blatantly aroused, others only curious, but all were watching Thrawn with a nasty sort of hunger in their faces. The first gangster finished looking through the scandocs and paused, flipping Pellaeon’s datacard back over to him. 

After a moment — glancing briefly at Thrawn’s display — the gangster fished in his pockets and came out with a datacard of his own. He handed this to Pellaeon, too.

“The boss’ll want to see you at the jumping off point at ten sharp,” he said, his voice all practiced menace. “Make sure there aren’t any delays.”

“Of course,” said Pellaeon neutrally. He let the words breathe for a moment to give the gangster a feeling of grandeur. Then, sharply, he said, “That’s enough, slave. Wrap it up.”

Thrawn paused, breathing heavily, his eyes hooded and far away. For a long moment, he seemed incapable of movement; Pellaeon very deliberately kept his eyes on Thrawn’s face, so he couldn’t see why. He watched the expression on Thrawn’s face change from dazed to a wooden mask.

“Now, slave,” Pellaeon said, forcing himself not to sound gentle. “Clothes on. Let’s go.”

Thrawn took a quick breath and nodded. He bent down, pulling his underwear back up and taking great care with it once he got to his thighs. With equal care, he pulled his trousers back on, tying them loosely around his hips. By the time he got to his shirt, his movements were more brusque and business-like and his face was entirely closed-off.

“Gentlemen,” Pellaeon said, nodding to the gangsters. A few of them nodded back; the others were whispering among themselves, eyeing Thrawn. Pellaeon clapped Thrawn on the shoulder again and spun him around, facing him toward the doorway.

“Let’s go,” he said under his breath.

They made it down the hall to the main part of the cantina without a word. Thrawn refused to meet Pellaeon’s eyes — though it seemed less deliberate and more absent-minded. His breathing was still pained and shallow, and he walked slowly and with an odd gait. Pellaeon watched him, considered making a remark, swallowed it before it even started.

Then, as they passed the refresher, Thrawn’s hand shot out and his fingers closed tightly around Pellaeon’s arm.

“Gilad,” he hissed, jerking his head toward the door. His hair was in disarray; sweat trickled down the back of his neck. Startled, Pellaeon didn’t answer for a moment, only stared at the Grand Admiral. Then, with a quick glance up and down the hallway, he nodded.

“Alright,” he said, though he wasn’t really sure what Thrawn was asking. The word had barely left his mouth when Thrawn pushed the refresher door open, revealing a single-person room with no stalls. Pellaeon glanced around before entering and then slid the lock into place behind him. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

Thrawn glanced at himself in the water-stained mirror, grimaced, and turned back to Pellaeon. There was a tent in his trousers and a small wet spot no bigger than a single credit chip between his legs. It seemed to shimmer in the refresher’s dim light.

“I’m not finished,” Thrawn said, his voice tight. 

Pellaeon hesitated. The datacard the gangster had given him felt like it was burning a hole in his pocket — but he knew Thrawn wouldn’t delay the mission if it weren’t absolutely necessary. He scanned Thrawn’s body — the arms crossed tightly over his chest, the flush turning his cheeks a darker shade of blue, the stain of phosphorescent lubricant on his trousers — and felt his mouth run dry. 

“You … want my help?” he asked. There seemed to be no other reason Thrawn would drag him in here, and sure enough, Thrawn nodded. “What do you want me to do?” Pellaeon asked.

Thrawn’s breath hitched. He shifted from foot to foot and glanced away.

“Tell me what to do?” he said. It came out sounding like a question; it got Pellaeon’s heart pounding harder than it had since their last space battle.

“Keep up appearances, you mean?” he asked, his voice coming out smoother than he expected it to. It certainly didn’t match his mental state. “The whole master-and-slave routine?”

Thrawn’s fingers tightened on his own sleeve. He nodded, refusing to meet Pellaeon’s eyes, and then — before Pellaeon could even act — Thrawn’s hips twitched in what looked like almost a reflexive gesture, and his eyes squeezed shut.

“Hold still,” Pellaeon told him, putting a tone of command in his voice. He crossed the fresher quickly and put his hands on Thrawn’s shoulders, guiding him backward until his back hit the wall. “Now stay still,” Pellaeon said. “Don’t move.”

He waited for Thrawn to acknowledge the order with a tiny nod. Then, moving carefully but quickly, Pellaeon skimmed his hands down Thrawn’s chest, unbuttoning his shirt again. He watched as the hard planes of Thrawn’s chest were exposed, his nipples erect from arousal, his chest heaving as he fought for breath. Pellaeon pushed the shirt down off Thrawn’s arms, letting it hang on a support bar built into the wall. 

Then, kneeling down before Thrawn, he found himself face-to-face with Thrawn’s erection and the slowly growing wet spot on his thigh. Pellaeon put his hand on Thrawn’s hip, noted the heat coming off his skin even through the fabric, and lightly touched the wet spot with his thumb. It wasn’t sticky, but it was surprisingly slick, better than most artificial lubricants Pellaeon had been unfortunate enough to try. He rubbed the patch with his thumb, applying slight pressure, and felt Thrawn’s thigh muscles tense beneath his hand. 

“ _Gilad…_ ” Thrawn huffed. 

“Master,” Pellaeon corrected him.

Thrawn went still beneath his hand, not breathing for a moment. Then, with a sharp exhale, he shifted his leg, forcing Pellaeon’s hand closer to his cock. 

“Master,” he said, “please.”

Pellaeon traced his hand over the erection straining at Thrawn’s trousers, admiring for a moment just how hard the Grand Admiral could get. He felt Thrawn’s hips stutter beneath his hand and looked up with a smile.

“I’m going to undress you now,” he said evenly. “So hold still and don’t misbehave.”

Thrawn’s eyes darkened at that, but he obeyed, staying still as a statue as Pellaeon reached up to untie the laces on Thrawn’s trousers. He made sure to graze the heel of his palm over Thrawn’s cock as he did so, feeling the outline of it through the fabric. Slowly, he threaded the laces out of the holes they were in and tugged the V-front of Thrawn’s trousers apart, getting a glimpse of blue skin and the silky fabric of Thrawn’s underwear—

And the head of his cock, pushing through the waistband of Thrawn’s underwear and resting against his stomach. 

Pellaeon stared at it for a moment, his mouth going dry. He wanted desperately to reach out and press his tongue against it, but instead, his eyes tracked down to the feminine cut of Thrawn’s underwear — the bulge of his cock against the fabric — the masculine scent coming off his thighs. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of Thrawn’s underwear and tugged them down, sliding the fabric over Thrawn’s cock and then down even further.

He’d gotten the thong down to Thrawn’s upper thighs when he finally saw where the tentacle was. It was almost unnoticeable; at the same time, it was horribly, utterly conspicuous. He stared at it, unblinking and expressionless, as all the pieces clicked into place and he realized why Thrawn was so distressed.

The tentacle had gone down between Thrawn’s legs and up inside him, extending itself fully into Thrawn’s hole, filling him completely. Pellaeon could see the length of it pulsing between Thrawn’s thighs, thrusting in and out slightly, and apparently against Thrawn’s will. He glanced up, saw the flush on Thrawn’s cheeks, the way he bit his lip.

“Did you do this on purpose?” Pellaeon asked, his hands on Thrawn’s bare thighs. The tentacle was only a few centimeters away from his thumb. He reached out, swiping his thumb through the moisture gathered on Thrawn’s thighs, and then raised it to his mouth to get a taste. It didn’t taste so different from human cum, a flavor Pellaeon had always liked. There was a mild taste of salt, a slight tang, but nothing else.

Thrawn wasn’t answering. Pellaeon tightened his grip on Thrawn’s thighs and pushed them apart slightly, giving himself a better view of the spot where Thrawn’s tentacle disappeared between his legs. 

“Is this how you masturbate?” he asked. 

Thrawn’s breath hitched. His thighs trembled beneath Pellaeon’s hands, the tentacle pulsing inside him. Pellaeon imagined that he could see it flexing, curling inside of Thrawn to reach places no human cock could touch him. 

“It is, isn’t it?” said Pellaeon, brushing the slick surface of the tentacle with his thumb. “You could do this just about anywhere and nobody would notice … unless you lost your composure, right? You could even get away with doing this on the bridge. Entering yourself, pleasuring yourself. No hands required.”

He stroked the tentacle, watching the way it tensed and relaxed in response to his touch. Thrawn squirmed against the wall, his breathing sharp and shallow, but there was nowhere he could retreat to. He had no choice but to lean into Pellaeon’s touch, rocking his hips to press the tentacle against Pellaeon’s hand.

“Well,” said Pellaeon, watching the tentacle press against his palm, “I don’t see what you need me for. Why don’t you tell me?”

He glanced up, watching from beneath his eyelashes as Thrawn struggled to speak. It took him three tries before he managed, breathlessly, to whisper, “My cock…”

“Yes, it _is_ looking rather neglected, isn’t it?” Pellaeon said. Thrawn’s cock strained against his stomach, leaking pre-cum and twitching every now and then in response to the slow strokes of the tentacle inside him. “Tell me,” said Pellaeon, ignoring the strain of his own cock against his trousers, “what were you doing for those men in there? What kind of show were you putting on?”

Thrawn gasped, his eyes squeezed shut. His hips bucked slightly, held in place by Pellaeon’s firm grip.

“Touching myself,” he managed eventually, the words coming out as little more than a breath.

“Touching yourself _how_?” Pellaeon asked. “Show me.”

For a moment, all he got in response was Thrawn’s rapid, ragged breathing. Then, looking more distressed than Pellaeon had ever seen him, Thrawn shook his head.

“I can’t,” he said. The tentacle pulsed inside him, pulling back and thrusting back in with a vengeance. Pellaeon spread Thrawn’s legs a little further, watching it all happen with keen interest. 

“How deep does it reach inside you?” he asked. Then, when Thrawn didn’t answer, he twisted the tentacle around his finger and tugged, pulling it out several inches and letting it thrust back in again. Thrawn’s legs shook uncontrollably; he started to slide down the wall, kept in place only by Pellaeon’s hand on his hip.

“All—” Thrawn gasped, back arching against the wall. “All the way. Gilad, please—”

Pellaeon tightened his grip on Thrawn’s thighs, holding him still. “That’s no way to speak to your master,” he said.

It took a moment, but eventually, Thrawn stopped reacting, staying as still as he could while the tentacle thrust in and out of him. His legs twitched compulsively, unable to stop with the tentacle curling inside him.

“Tell me what you want,” Pellaeon said. 

Thrawn threw his head back, his skull colliding with the wall. He didn’t seem to feel any pain. His legs bowed against his will, bending outward to make room for the tentacle thrusting deeper and deeper inside him. His chest heaved, nipples erect and flushed with arousal as he struggled for breath.

“I want—” he gasped. “I want—”

Pellaeon lowered his head, kissing the head of Thrawn’s cock. “We don’t have much time,” he reminded him.

“I want you to—” Thrawn said.

Pellaeon opened his mouth, swallowing Thrawn’s cock as deep as he could. It bobbed against the back of his throat, forcing him to swallow past his gag reflex. He ran his tongue along the underside of it, feeling Thrawn’s veins beneath the skin, the heat of his body inside Pellaeon’s mouth. 

He pulled away, burying his face in the space between Thrawn’s hips. He felt Thrawn bucking against him, desperate for release, unable to bear the interruption. After a moment, ignoring his own desires, Pellaeon took Thrawn’s cock in his mouth again.

He drove deep, taking Thrawn’s cock as deep as he could, his fingers tightening on Thrawn’s thighs until the pressure was strong enough to cause bruises. Thrawn’s cock was too large for comfort, filling Pellaeon’s mouth entirely, but he didn’t complain. He was hyper-aware of the tentacle between Thrawn’s legs, driving him closer and closer to orgasm as Pellaeon worked.

He felt Thrawn thrust into him — helpless to stop it — for only the third time, and then suddenly Thrawn stiffened, his breath coming short as his entire body tensed. He came into Pellaeon’s mouth almost immediately, the taste salty and sweet all at once, the gush of arousal overwhelming. Pellaeon heard, for a moment, nothing but Thrawn’s harsh breathing; felt nothing but Thrawn’s trembling breath beneath his hands.

He stood slowly, ignoring his own arousal, and watched as the tentacle slid out from between Thrawn’s legs. It disappeared into the pouch Pellaeon had noticed earlier as Thrawn tried to catch his breath, face flushed and chest heaving.

Pellaeon, feeling rather off-center himself, put some iron into his voice.

“We need to go,” he said.

Thrawn looked at him, embarrassed and grateful and needy all at once.

“Yes, master,” he said.


End file.
